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Old men wrapped in brown thoughts and dun-coloured trench coats, butterflies dying from wine-stained kisses, those are the images that haunt Erik Linzbach’s melancholy poetry. They are a letter I wish I had never read, a call I wish I had never picked up — Today, on a sunny day where I feel sad and cold, the poems are the very worst thing I could have read: fragments of lives half-lived, filled with jealousy and resentment — Thoughts half-finished because life, evil, inconsiderate life, dared interrupt the character’s reverie. These are not the thoughts I want in my head; this is not the poetry I wanted clouding my sunny Sunday — My problem with this book isn’t that Erik Linzbach’s words miss their mark; it is, rather, that they hit it too accurately. This is poetry best read on a full stomach, with a full glass of strong wine, and a heart devoid of emotions. (Andree Lachapelle)

Erik Linzbach 12849 E. Ponce St., Dewey, AZ 86327

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